Ganymede (29 page)

“Ah,” said Cly. “That’s the extra smell. It’s old water.”

“We pumped her out as best we could, and left her open to dry—but there’s only so much to be done about it. She doesn’t leak,” he added quickly. “She’s just hard to clean. Inside, there’s not anything much that’ll rot. The designers got that part right. Everything you see can be swabbed down, and shouldn’t get too nasty. I’d worry about rust, but the special paint they used in here protects it pretty well. The electric system is built into the walls, sealed off tight, and the diesel engine—and the propulsion mechanics—are also cordoned off. You’d need a fuse and a keg of powder to soak it down.”

Houjin was still facefirst in the mirrorscope mechanism. He swiveled it toward Deaderick and announced, “The top of your head is
huge
! I mean, it looks huge. From here.”

Early laughed. “You got that working right quick, didn’t you?” He stretched up out of the doorway and waved with one hand.

Houjin waved back. “It’s amazing! And it’s all done with mirrors?” Before Deaderick could answer, he asked, “Did Mr. Worth set this up, too? Did he just make the mirrors, or did he design the scope, or did someone else do all that?”

“Mr. Worth didn’t make it, but he’s the man who told us how it works. He also improved it a bit, adjusting the angle of the mirrors and changing a few of the searching gears. What you see now, when you see
Ganymede,
” he said, blinking back some deep internal pain, and talking past it, “is dozens of men, working together, building on the knowledge of the men who came before us. The ship was working when McClintock died, and it was working when we first dredged it up from the bottom of the lake. But in the last six months, as we’ve been forced to figure out
how
it works … we’ve also figured out how to make it better.”

Cly waved at the console and asked, “Are these notes yours?”

“Mine and Mumler’s, mostly. A few might’ve been written by Chester, or one of the other lads. We’ve been meaning to draw up plates like McCormick started, and get ’em engraved. But for right now, all we have is pencil and paper, and a nail to scratch marks into the metal when we feel like we need them.”

The captain said, “Whatever works. Hey, when is it safe to fire this thing up and take it around the lake? Or is it a crapshoot, given how Texas is watching from above?”

“Safest time is always night, of course. But as far as we can tell, it’s not honestly that much different from swimming around during the day.”

Kirby Troost looked up from the control panel he was examining. “How’s that?”

“The water’s pretty dark, and even when the sun’s up, you can’t really spot the ship from the air—not unless you know exactly what you’re looking for, and even then, sometimes you can stare right at it without seeing it.”

“Spoken like a man who’s given it a try,” the captain observed.

“Absolutely. I went up in one of the Barataria ships and took a look for myself. In fact, that’s what I was doing at the bay when Texas attacked—returning with the crew of the
Crawdaddy
from doing a little reconnaissance. It was miserable timing on my part, but it was a good exercise and I don’t regret doing it. We brought that little flier over here and scanned from all altitudes, high and low, making double sure she wouldn’t draw any extra attention if we tested her out and ran her around the pond.”

“It’s a shame it cost you a couple extra holes.”

Deaderick said, “Every day’s a risk. I was bound to take a scratch eventually, and this one didn’t kill me—so there’s something to be thankful for.”

“True, true.”

The guerrilla continued. “
Ganymede
’s outside surface isn’t black, but it’s such a dark brown, it might as well be. It matches the lake bottom just about perfect, especially if there’s been a storm of any kind. Then all the dead grass and moss, all that swampy stuff, it gets stirred up and pools on the surface. It’s damn near perfect camouflage.”

“Like the tents you’ve got, out in the camp,” Troost noted. “You could look down from the sky and never notice a thing on the ground. It’s nicely done.”

“Thanks. And it
has
to be nicely done, otherwise we’d be dead by now. That’s the first thing I learned when I joined the bayou boys a couple years ago. Our technology isn’t everything, but it’s second only to our wits when it comes to keeping us alive. Sometimes it’s hell to maintain. Wet as it is out here, we have to paint everything over and over again, to keep it from rusting.”

Houjin finally withdrew his face from the mask at the mirrorscope. “But paint won’t keep rust away. Not forever.”

Deaderick said, “We use what Texas puts on its naval skimmers and the like. It’s made with a few extra ingredients, and it keeps things more waterproof than not. Still, we have to keep layering up the coats to keep things straight.”

The boy gave this a moment of consideration, and then said, “It’s a good thing Texas uses so much brown.”

Early laughed. “You’re right about that! We steal most of what we use, but they don’t ever notice it’s missing.”

“So when do we get to try and—” Houjin hunted for a word. “—drive it?”

“We should wait until later in the afternoon, at least. Let the shadows get good and long, and take some time to sit around with our operators. We can teach you everything we know about making this fish swim, and then I’ll hand you over to Wallace Mumler,” Deaderick said to the captain in particular.

“What can he tell us?”

“Wally’s been busy making maps—but not maps of the land. Maps of the water, of the lake out at this end, and of the Mississippi.”

Cly settled gingerly into the captain’s chair, spinning it with his knees so that he could face Deaderick, sitting up in the entrance portal. “Getting
Ganymede
through water won’t be as simple as flying at night.”

“The currents won’t be very different—air and water, they move in a similar way. And you can actually
see
the water gusting around, and sometimes you can tell which way it’s pushing just by looking. But it’s true, the sky doesn’t have much in the way of obstacles, I wouldn’t think … except maybe other ships, sometimes. Hidden in the clouds.”

“That hardly ever happens, but I’ve heard of it—once in a while. And I’ve sailed right into a flock of birds once or twice, but I bet that’s not half as bad as the shipwrecks, charges, and other boats waiting at the bottom of a river.”

“You’re betting right. You’ll be piloting more blind than not. They don’t call it the Muddy Mississippi for nothing. Everything is a danger, something to be run aground on. Uneven spots on the bottom, sunken trees, boulders, roots, and worse. And out on the river, you won’t just be hiding from the forts, you’ll be hiding from commercial vessels. Mostly they’re flat-bottomed things, riverboats and barges, which you’ll need to dive beneath, or dodge. We’ll have men on the river who’ll help out as much as they can, guiding you from the topside.

“But you have to understand, once you’re sealed up inside this thing, there’s no good way to communicate with the rest of us. You’ll be on your own—no speaking amplifiers like the Texians use, or anything like that. And if you run into trouble, we might not be able to help.”

Cly squeezed the arms of the captain’s chair and looked at each of his crewmen in turn. Fang, first mate. Sitting in the next seat over already, as if he’d assumed it’d play this way all along. Kirby Troost, standing by the bay doors that led to the engines, to the blast charges, and the rest, looking like he wasn’t 100 percent certain of this after all, but was unwilling to say so. And then there was Houjin, one hand resting on the pivot handle for the mirrorscope, his face beaming with excitement because the risks meant little to him. Even if he understood them as well as he thought he did, obliviousness to death was the privilege of the young.

“Well?” Deaderick asked. “What do you say?”

Captain Cly replied, “I say it’s time for supper almost. Let’s have a bite to eat, then spend the rest of the afternoon getting to know this thing.”

  
Ten

Josephine waited on the bayou dock between Wallace Mumler and Chester Fishwick, with Anderson Worth, Honeyfolk Rathburn, Dr. Polk, and Deaderick Early standing by. Much as Deaderick had wanted to ride along, his sister and his doctor had given him such grief about it that eventually he’d decided it’d be easier to do as they said.

Josephine didn’t enjoy treating him like a child, but men were childlike when they were sick or injured—she knew that for a fact, and sometimes it was simply easier to insist, so long as it was for his own good. She would have done anything to keep him safe, and she suspected he would do whatever he wanted the moment her back was turned.

She watched him out of the corner of her eye. His arms were folded across his chest, one of them held a bit awkwardly because of the bandage. His injuries could have been much worse, and so far, nothing had begun to fester. His strength was returning with his appetite, and though he shouldn’t have been up and around so much—he should’ve been resting, damn him—she had to admit that for a man who’d taken two bits of lead, he looked very well.

Still, she eyed him constantly, looking for signs of weakness or a worsening state. Every breath that came with less than perfect ease, every small stumble, every wince and cringe … she cataloged them in her head and played them over and over again, constantly trying to assure herself that all was well, and he was fine.

He was a cat with eight lives left. Or seven: one lopped off the total for each bullet.

Together the small group watched the water where
Ganymede
was once again fully submerged. Sealed inside it were Captain Cly, Fang, Houjin, Kirby Troost, and Rucker Little—who had volunteered, knowing the risks. If anything, he knew them better than the
Naamah Darling
’s crew.

Josephine had wanted to call Rucker aside before he got on board; she wanted to have a private word with him, explaining that Cly and his men didn’t know the whole truth. She hadn’t been straightforward with them, because she was afraid that if she’d given them the numbers, they would’ve balked. She’d told Hazel and Ruthie to lie, and lie they had. Ruthie’d quietly confirmed it for her while the men inspected the vessel.

“What did you tell them?” Josephine had whispered.

Ruthie had whispered back, “That it was safe. That it worked just fine.”

“And no one died?”

“Hardly anyone. I think that’s how Hazel put it. Just McClintock.”

“Jesus,” Josephine had blasphemed under her breath. “I hope nobody tells them the truth.”

“I hope they do not die,” Ruthie had added.

Josephine hoped they survived, too. She wanted nothing more than a living, breathing, successful crew to emerge from
Ganymede
out in the Gulf of Mexico, at the airship carrier
Valiant
. But deep down, in a hard, dark little corner of her heart she did not care to confront … she was glad it was Cly taking the risk, and not her brother.

Bubbles sputtered to the surface and stopped. A wide ripple cut concentric circles across the lake and then, with an almost silent click of gears and the slip of lubricated metal, the mirrorscope’s small round lens poked up through the low ripples—like an alligator’s eyeball on a thick steel stalk.

The mechanical eye dipped once, and resumed its position.

“That’s the signal,” said Chester. “They’re doing okay.”

But Josephine noted, “They haven’t left the dock yet. I’ll hold my cheers until after I’ve seen them take it out for a lap.”

“Show a little optimism,” her brother urged. “This was your idea, wasn’t it?”

“It was. And Cly is good, but I guess we’ll see
how
good.”

Honeyfolk said, “I’m not sure that’s fair. He might be the greatest pilot who ever flew, but
Ganymede
might still be more than he can handle.”

Josephine wanted tell Mr. Rathburn that she was sure he’d be fine, but she kept silent and watched, because it was easier than making proclamations she was too nervous to believe in. She wrung her hands together without even noticing, squeezing her fingernails into her palms and staring down hard at the lake. “They don’t know the risk. They don’t know how bad it’s really been—how many men have died in that thing.”